Theatrical Landlady

I seem to have drifted into a landlady-life without any firm planning on my part. There is a whiff of fate about it since caring duties (looking after J from 2005 to 2007 then C from circa 2010 to 2016) have a strong portion of old-fashioned domestic labour underpinning the new 21st century emotional labour. I can now change  bed in about 1 minute and whip up a decent hollandaise in about 5. Both decent landlady skills.

My lovely lodger G is back in residence in Glasgow and is far too polite to comment on the mild chaos in my flat as I struggle to get my kitchen back together. Up in Drumbuidhe I've put the fank on airbnb and had the first ever guests. They were charming although the £100 they paid and the lovely review they wrote did help to confirm their charm. I spent £115 on bed linen for their visit so I haven't hit on a cunning plan for untold riches but, still, it should help offset the running costs.

Of course I've still got multiple personas going on so last week was the Scottish School of Graduate Social Science Summer School (a fair mouthful even before I tried discussing the neoliberal hegemony over  glass of rose). Some great workshops but also a chance meeting with a Newcastle researcher who had a recently installed off-grid electrical system. He uses a propane generator which opened my eyes to the fact that there is an alternative to the diesel-hungry, over-sized, high-maintenance lister petter that we currently have. The genny has both a recurring overspeed fault and an inappropriate battery. I've been dithering about getting a maintenance visit since it's a minimum £500 per visit. Since a propane generator (silent! sits outside in its own box! easily stored fuel!) can be got for about £2000 it looks like that could be big step towards a new Drumbuidhe grid.

One of my other burgeoning personas is film festival curator following the success of the first Drimnin Sheep Film Festival. We demonstrated that extensive social media coverage doesn't make a blind bit of difference to attendance on the west coast after blanket coverage on radio five's film review programme failed to nudge attendance for 'Rams' beyond our standard six. I also proved that gorse flower syrup isn't really worth the effort but makes a pleasant enough cocktail with gin.

Gorse Flower Syrup

250g flowers
250g sugar
500ml water
Juice & rind of 1 lime & 1 orange

Boil the water and sugar together, pour over the flowers, juice and rind and leave to infuse overnight. In the morning, strain and bring, briefly, to the boil again. Bottle - adding a camden tablet if you want to store it unrefrigerated.

I made up cocktails with gin + syrup + lemon juice, lengthened with soda water and enjoyed over ice. They were very nice but more citrus than gorse.

Spring and stuff

C's celebration went well: the daffodils bloomed on time; the stories were short and sweet; the grandsons read poems from Ogden Nash & Spike Milligan and 200 folk turned up to join the party. The organisation had inevitable messy bits, as one of my friends pointed out, organising a funeral is lime organising a wedding but you have to do it in two weeks. I thought that he grandsons, aged 7 and 9, were too young to speak at a large event (I was wrong, they were excellent) and my sister accused me of spoiling her memory of our mother by preventing her partner from playing his guitar at her memorial (I didn't). My mother's brother turned up from New Zealand and sulked a bit when he wasn't hailed as the family patriarch. I left for London after the party and picked up some evil southern flu which has left me poorly for a couple of weeks. I confirmed to the executor that my sister was going to take C's car before the party but she forgot to collect it (it's sitting at the Honda garage) and accused me of witholding it to make her life difficult (I didn't ... there's a bit of a theme going on here). As a sweet coda to the celebration, at least two of the guests got in touch with Galgael, which I'd mentioned in my euology, which provides training in traditional wooden boat building.

I'm now back to research with a long day at Heriot Watt where I went to the post-graduate research showcase and finally got round to setting up country by country data on energy assessment. Sorting out the estate winds its slow way along. The executors have managed to track down the deeds for C's Glasgow flat which, it turns out was owned jointly by my parents, this means my mother's estate will have to be adjusted before C's can be sorted. Hey ho.

Life at Drumbuidhe continues and, although I'm still coming across stuff that C has cut holes in (propagator trays, walls, windows, expensive machines ...) there is growing optimism that I will, eventually, manage to limit the amount of time I spend looking mournfully at machines that don't work. I'm starting small with the two chainsaws which I've brought down to Glasgow to see if they can be saved. I'm giving myself two years to tidy things (since Drumbuidhe has at least 7 vehicles, none of which work properly, this is not a trivial task) and sort out where and how I'm going to be based. I'm thinking seriously about selling my Glasgow flat and moving permanently to Drumbuidhe, renting a property in the central belt for work. Obviously, while this pondering goes on, the potatoes still have to get planted.

While I've been poorly and distracted, my kitchen renovation has been halted but I've dismantled enough of it to make cooking awkward so adventures in cuisine are limited to toast and yoghurt at the minute. When I got back from London, and while I was still poorly, I went to the Gardeners Cottage in Edinburgh with two of C's colleagues. Outstanding food even if I did throw up when I got home. One of the seven courses was wild garlic soup with ham hock and hazelnuts. To echo this I picked a stack of garlic from Casteal nan Con while heading south after potato planting. The quickest and easiest option is undoubtedly pesto. For this I used what I had in my depleted kitchen (sunflower seeds) and a present of pumpkin seed oil from C's Austrian colleague.

wild garlic pesto
* garlic leaves
* parmesan
* sunflower seeds
* pumpkin seed oil

Pulse everything together in a food processor (inherited from C) and use the fabulous green paste wherever a taste of spring is needed.

There is a bit of a sad memory attached to this since C became a bit obsessed with makig this in in final years. Last year the first workaway volunteer we had visiting told me that C had grabbed and shaken them when they didn't respond fast enough to his demands to help him make it. This meant that I couldn't leave C alone with the volunteers.

death & taxes

On the morning of Friday 16th January C died in his sleep. He was getting increasingly frail so I was going round to see him twice a day. I arrived at his flat just after he'd died.

C is survived by his brother and his two daughters. There was a private cremation the week after his death but I'm now in the throes of organising a great big party at Oran Mor to celebrate his life. Oh, and there's his obituary and cards to all his friends and sorting his estate. I'm tired and sad but doing OK.

My sister is another matter. She's very upset and, after a quick five days in Glasgow (the cremation was timed to fit in with her plans) she's back down in England, not taking my phone calls and seems to be teetering on the edge of a breakdown. I started off thinking that she had money problems since she keeps trying to get access to C's cash before probate but she's so out of control that I'm worried something else might be going on. It doesn't help that I listen to the Archers regularly and spend most of my time shouting at the radio for Tom, Kirsty, Fallon, Iain ... anyone! to see that Helen is drowning not waving.

In an appropriate twist, this week was also the deadline for tax returns. I did manage to get something approximating a return in with 4 days to go.

In less grim news there was a fine Burns Supper at Drimnin with music, recitation, a quiz and many fine words from friends of C. Sad stuff for those of us left but, oh, what a life!

a camera for Christmas

A key rule in relationships (well, my key rule) is that selflessness helps with sanity.  Expecting gratitude or even reciprocal gifts is a quick route to disappointment.  Especially if your boyfriend is an alcoholic.  For D's birthday I got him a lovely lumix camera.  For my birthday he got me, well, nothing.  Soon after that he told me to fuck off back home if I wasn't prepared to sleep with him (I wasn't so I did and life has been calmer and happier since) thus confirming that I wasn't ever going to get that birthday present.  All it took was a whiff of a PhD stipend and I decided that I could just buy myself a present if I really wanted it.  After much searching on ebay I tracked down another lumix in a charity shop being sold cheap since no-one knew if it worked or not.  After a bit of shoogling with a generic battery charger I got it up and working so I've started running around the damp Scottish hillsides experimenting with all sorts of gloomy colour schemes.

Heriot Watt University (where I'm doing my research) are short of space for research students so I've been given a university laptop on condition that I don't turn up to the university every day.  Since it's an hour trip to Heriot Watt that suits me fine but it does mean that I miss out on the camaraderie of colleagues.  Thankfully my boatbuilding course payed dividends again with not one but two Christmas parties.  The second one was a full-blown Christmas dinner for all volunteers, staff and trainees with food donated by Morrisons served on the workbenches.  I was trying to use up food before heading north and so I made an orange and almond cake based on Claudia Roden's classic recipe but with the added yumminess of a chocolate truffle icing (adapted from Julia Child's recipe in Mastering the Art of French Cookery).  It was eaten swiftly, enjoyed by all and much praised.  It's also very, very easy with most of the cooking time taken up by waiting.


orange & almond cake

3 oranges
6 eggs
250g ground almonds
250g sugar
couple of drops of almond essence (if available since sweet almonds don't taste that almondy)
1 teaspoon baking powder
~
100g plain chocolate
50g unsalted butter
grated zest from one orange and some orange juice

* simmer the three oranges for one hour, cut open to remove pips then purree the soft oranges, peel, pulp and all
* heat oven to 160C, line a loose-base 22cm tin with baking paper
* mix the orange puree, eggs, almonds, sugar and baking powder
* bake for roughly 1 hour (it varies depending on how watery your orange puree is) until a skewer comes out clean
* remove from tin and cool upside down on a wire rack
* melt the chocolate, butter, orange zest and juice together ... only stir lightly in case it separates and once combined leave aside to cool until it's spreadable
* spread icing on cake and serve at room temperature

rain

I was up in Drumbuidhe two weeks ago with C, attempting to fix the boiler but hampered by the lack of a crucial photocell (actually it's a thermocouple rather than the 'photocell' referred to in the manual but it's still crucial).  My lovely, but temporary lodger called me to say that my kitchen ceiling had fallen in.  There's just too much damn rain.

 I took this as a sign from God that I should continue with my planned trip to Marseille and get serious about the kitchen refurbishment I've been dithering about for ... ooh, ages.

Marseille was lovely (sunny, warm, filled with French folk and lovely food) and I squeezed in a walk through the Calanques, a visit to the MuCEM archive, an Olympique Marseille match, a deeply French theatre experience (Genet's Splendide preceded by his 1950 film Un Chant d'Amour) and much wandering round the Panier et al.

I arrived back in Glasgow to discover that C had been contacted by fraudsters following a visit to a porn website.  After much badgering by them, they managed to withdraw £2,000 from his bank account.  His bank refunded it but it's left him shaken, nervous about his computer and even more confised about passwords.  I got his macbook sorted out (remote access software removed, password restored and admin access removed from C himself) and he's agreed that a new (more expensive and more hip) macbook may not be the panacea he was hoping for.

While my kitchen is still (mainly) intact I got back to my standard of fasting for 2 days a week which I'd put on hold whilst looking after C and then sampling yummy French food.  I'm keen to avoid my mum's trajectory of weight gain, immobility and early death so it's a return to no carbohydrates and lots of vegetables which needs a but of ingenuity to stay interesting.  Although it's not particularly low in calories, this recipe is low in carbohydrates and did use up the odds and sods in the fridge leftover from pre-Marseille ...

gorgonzola custard

2 eggs
2 cups milk
1 oz grated gorgonzola
salt & pepper (the cheese is very salty so easy on the seasoning)

mix well and bake in a water bath in a low oven for one hour

The gorgonzola doesn't fully mix with the custard but it does taste lovely and is particularly good with bitter greens

the nights are fair drawing in

Scotland's had its first cold snap so I'm typing this fully-clothed and with a dressing gown on top. My PhD topic is "The effect of building energy models on low-carbon refurbishment schemes" so I'm spending a fair bit of my time reading articles about the variation between buildings in operation.  It seems right and proper that I should at least attempt to live at the lower end of this variation.

I've settled down into a mix of research work, boat-building and care of father.  The research work is still in the reading stage whereby I spend an hour or so checking reference and trying to quell the rising panic at how much there is to check and I now travel everywhere with at least one article print-out on my person.  The boat-building is a project called 'Anchor & Sail' and is at the Galgael workshop in Govan.  It's a delight, even if I do seem to make mistakes with most things I touch.  I'm already starting to get excited about the possibility of building my own rowing boat for Drumbuidhe. Care of father has also settled down. He has once a week visits from cleaners and the local newsagents (they deliver the Saturday papers and fresh milk).  I call round every couple of days and while I was hoping to establish a more regular routine (brunch on Sundays and shopping on Thursdays for example) the current arrangement is working OK and there's room for changes in the future.

C's medical crisis last month was initially thought to be bleeding from varices (definitely caused by excess alcohol) but it turned out to be a gastric ulcer (possibly exacerbated by excessive alcohol).  As a result C's initial vow to give up alcohol has turned into an intention to cut down on alcohol.  C would be healthier if he cut the stuff out completely (he still has toilet problems which are quite restricting) and it would limit the possibility of him slipping back into his more-than-a-bottle-a-day habits.  I try not to get anxious about C's continued drinking (he's the one with the toilet problems after all) but it's depressing to find him back drinking when my sister visits.  I now see alcohol as evidence of distress rather than enjoyment.

I really dislike agreeing with Giles Coren (he was spectacularly ungracious about Benbecula during a visit there in 2010 which put the cherry on top of his self-centered restaurant reviews) but he did point out that spicy food is great if you're not drinking.  This, and the current cold snap, explains my current urge for some hot and interesting.  This is an updated version of the quick 'n' dirty Tom Yam Soup which saw me through two very chilly Japanese winters.  The variations are thanks to my flatmate Xinxin who always used to poach British pork which she felt had 'boar taint' and Nigel Slater's recipe for Thai meatballs.

Spicy Soup

500g pork mince
large handful coriander leaves chopped
six red chillies finely chopped
2 inch piece of ginger finely chopped
4 spring onions finely chopped
2 stalks lemon grass finely chopped

...... mix together and form into lots (about 40) meatballs; simmer the meatballs briefly in stock (the spare cooked meatballs can be kept for quick suppers or packed lunches through the week).

one chicken stock cube (or stock from simmering the meatballs)
one Tom Yam stock cube (or one teaspoon Tom Yam paste)
vegetables (chinese leaf, cabbage, carrot, mushroom ... whatever you fancy)
small amount of oil for frying

...... fry the meatballs and vegetables quickly over a high heat; remove and add to individual soup bowls; pour the stock into the frying pan and scrap up any residue left; add stock to bowls once it has boiled

The final result may be a bit greasy for western tastes but, for those of us wearing dressing gowns over our clothes, it's just what we need.

bashed about and a fair bit blooded

Crikey, that was a bit of a week.

Having registered for my PhD at Heriot Watt I took the scenic train & cycle route up to Drumbuidhe to continue the harvest (broccoli, rhubarb, cabbage, rowan) and to bring back my car. I headed back to Glasgow on the Monday to find that C had suffered internal bleeding on Saturday and had spent the weekend in a flat liberally covered in melena.

He was convinced that this was the end and, having refused the advice of our GP to go into hospital, had summoned my sister for a deathbed farewell. After cleaning him, his bed and the flat I realised quite how much blood he had lost, overruled his protests and called an ambulance. After a fair bit of unpleasantness (12 hours in A&E; a failed entroscopy; 2 blood transfusions and some spectacular sulking from my sister) the bleeding was identified and stopped and C was discharged last Saturday.

To complicate matters further, I then went back into the Southern General for a knee arthroscopy. I can now negotiate the fancy lifts in my sleep and yes, the views from the rooms are spectacular.

Subject to a bit of checking we're all back in our homes (my sister is back in Devon which also helps matters enormously). C has cut back on his drinking and, after trying Glasgow's homecare system, we've got an adhoc care system in place that shows promise.

Eating for the past week and a bit has been a mixed affair, including: vending machine chocolate (3am Southern General); tea and toast on a tray (from angelic nurses after I'd been awake for 36 hours); M&S ready meals (I got a bus rather than a taxi home after my knee operation and blew the savings on fancy food); Little Italy pizza (eaten through an ocean of tears after C's successful treatment and whilst watching the Great British Bake Off final); sliced bread donated by my corner shop (I think I looked particularly in need as I was buying toilet paper in a dwam) and macaroons (yes! macaroons!) from the (third) Heriot Watt PhD induction.

I'm still struggling to catch up with, well, everything at the minute but, the sun is shining and everyone is up and walking so the signs are good.